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A 

TRUE LOVE BALLAD 



-OF- 



PUT-IN CREEK 

AND OTHER POEMS 



TRUE LOVE BALLAD 

OF 

"PUT-IN CREEK" 

AND OTHER POEMS 
BY 

Herbert Livingston Worthington, 
"Harry Harrington." 






By transfer 
17 ill 907 



Burke & Gregory, Print, Norfolk 



^} 

^li^ A TRUE LOVE BALLAD 

CS 

OF 

" PUT-IN-CREEK." 



Last Eve I sauntered thro' the town, 
This Ancient Borough of renown, 
It's streets and alleys up and down 
To see what I could see ; 

I knew it many years ago, 
I've watched it's progress, ebb and flow, 
Low mark and high mark, high and low. 
Ere she was what she be. 

I met a Mariner and he 

Was grizzly gray as gray could be, 

He had the salt smell of the sea, 

A smell that wasn't weak, 

A squint was in his weather eye 

He got from watching of the sky, 

Lest Storms should catch him on the sly 

Adrift in "Put-in-Creek". 



Wintry gales hid in his hair 
That scorned the silent Barber's care, 
A Mariner he was, I swear, 
(A quid was in his mouth,) 
Complacently he chewed and chewed 
The' "Boreas" raged or "Thetis" wooed 
Or "Euroc" his mad tempest brewed 
From Nor-west East by South. 

He stood a Sea-God on his deck, 
Foi" storm or calm he had no reck, 
Nor calm or storm a single speck ; 
The mad waves surged beneath : 
He scanned the sea, he scanned the land, 
The ebb and flow upon the strand, 
He held a Jack-knife in his hand 
A-picking of his teeth. 

Four score he might have been or more, 
This Sea-nursed Mariner of yore, 
A weed o' Time cast on the shore 
For aught I know, to doze. 
Ere Old Saint Paul's a Kirk was, ere 
The good Sir Ralph Lane landed where 
Was once Town Point, the city here 
Was in her swaddling clothes. 



For these Old Sea Dogs never die, 

Coleridge he knew it, so do I, 

And should they, there's no reason why 

They mayn't come back again, 

In Holy Writ somewhere I've read 

The Mighty Sea gives back his dead, 

What he gives back it must be said 

He cannot keep — 'tis plain. 

Death is ai sleep and sleep has dreams 
And Dreams a waking. Life but seems 
A Dream or Nightmare, thro' it gleamls 
Sunshine perhaps or shade. 
That which was is not yet still is,. 
Oh Vassar lend me your cute quiz. 
I flounder in my metaphys, 
I crave your potent aid. 

This Mariner, long years ago 

I knew him, then the W^inter snow 

Lav on his locks as now, and tho' 

He seemeth old, I know 

Time works no change for him. as then 

Ha is, he sorteth not with men. 

He talks with me, I, with him when 

We talk of Long Ago. 



The Past is in his every look, 

He reads it as an open book, 

The City; Street and Lane and Nook 

Are mapped off in his head, 

He sorteth not with Man or Child, 

A kind, old Soul he, unbeguiled, 

If Fortune frowned or Fortune smiled 

He careth not he said. 

The Sea Nymphs sing his lullaby. 
He loves the Sea, he knows not why. 
It's face, 'neath bright or cloudy sky 
Is lovely in his eye. 

It's calms, it's passions, smiles and tears 
Have been his worship many years, 
Not on the land his God appears 
Throned in such Majesty. 

Mariner! tell to Paul* and me 
What speak the voices of the Sea, 
Ye, who are old and gray as he, 
Is it a mystic rune? 
The round Moon rises from the Sea, 
About her car Sea Urchins be. 
All dripping with his brine is she, 
Westward she slippeth soon. 

6 *PauJ in " Dombey and Son ". 



Where rolls Pacific on his strand 

Gold-carpeted, Alaskan) sand 

All jewelled, kisses his soft hand. 

What is't the voices say? 

Life is short and Love is sweet, 

The Sky and Sea kiss when they meet, 

Aye 1 lads and lasses when they greet. 

These things bide not for aye. 

Ye Ancient Mariner of the Seas, 
O'er heaps of Pearls, rich Argosies 
And Mermaid haunts, is't such as these 
All thro' the Night ye seek? 
What be your quest here every night 
When Stars do blink, and snowy white 
Your sail gleams like a winged sprite 
O'er storm-tossed "Put-in-Creek"? 

Mermaids are singing over there 
A lullaby beyond compare, 
I see them comb their yellow hair 
Sea-drenched and limp and sleek. 
Over the Sailor Boy's damp grave. 
They've laid him in a coral cave 
Deep down beneath the Sunlit wave 
That rolls o'er "Put-in-Creek". 



"This Put-in-Creek," I knowed it when 

Your oldest folks were babies, then 

It coursed the Northern bounds of men 

Thro' marsh and fen and brake. 

Chapel Street was then it's bed, 

From Charlotte Northward still it spread. 

From Tripoli it Eastward led 

To now-called "Mahone Lake". 

Ere M was dreamed of, and it's flow 
Was to the Eastern Branch we know 
Where Kempsville is, who, long ago, 
The Entry Port o' Crown, 
Sent lordly ships o'er distant Seas, 
White-winged to woo the fav'ring breeze, 
When this here Norfolk, if yon please. 
Was even scarce a town. 

This be the life I love the best, 

I've sailed East, I've sailed West, 

Thro' Seas of Storms, thro' Seas of Rest 

From Newport News to Ghent, 

A tireless fiend of evil care 

Hath followed mie, aye ! everywhere, 

Thro' fair and foul and foul and fair 

He went where'er I went. 



He followeth me where'er I be, 

He roams the Earth, he sails the Sea, 

He bringeth much unrest to me, 

A Ghost he of the Past, 

Whilom I knew when Life was young, 

And Love did chide with honeyed tongue, 

He sings the songs a Maiden sung, 

His spell doth bind me fast. 

A Maiden sweet, who, once for me 

Was as the Moonlight to the Sea 

Or red, ripe Clover to the Bee, 

No fairer may ye seek, 

She owned my love with modest mein. 

Ah ! woful day as e'er was seen, 

He stole the Maid, he bore my Queen 

Far up this "Put-in-Creek ;" 

And gave her to the Mermaids, who 
Have hid her 'neath the waters blue, 
I seek her as I loved her true. 
For aye, my Love I seek, 
This be my quest here every night 
When Stars do blink and snowy white 
My sail gleams like a Meteor bright 
O'er Storm-tossed "Put-in-Creek." 



THE OLD WISHING TREE 

TO 

MISS COURTNEY NEWTON ARPS, 

OF 

Norfolk, Virginia, 

This little Poem of "The Old Wishing Tree" 

is respectfully dedicated by her dear 

Father's old Army Chum of the 

Sixties, and his and her 

Sincere Friend 

Herbert Livingston Worthington, 



BY WAY OF PREFACE. 



THE OLD WISHING TREE. 



The Old Wishing Tree, (as everybody hereabouts knows 
and God pity those who don't.) was time out of mind one of 
the most beautiful as well as historic Landmarks of "Ye 
Anshient Borough of 'Norfolk," as it's old charter, signed by 
Sir William Gooch, designates it. 

It was, (alack! we can not say it is.) a thing of Antiquity, 
for, really, how old it was I dare affirm that even Noah him- 
self, (if he were living,) would scarce hazard a guess. Poca- 
hontas, with her maids in waiting, may have played checquers 
in its shade, and the young Bucks attendant upon the Mighty 
Powhatan might there have organized their Base Ball Nines 
or selected their Foot Ball Teams, (for the Wise Man once 
said : "there is nothing new under the Sun,") upon the Green- 
sward of the Tazewell Estate whereon it lived and grew and 
died. 

But be this as it may — 

The redoubtable Captain John Smith in his "His- 
toric of Ye Colony of Virginia," speaks of many 
things of interest concerning these parts of "The Ultima 
Thule," yet makes he no mention of The Wishing Tree. 
What inference are we to draw from this? That it did not 
exist? Not a whit of it. Does he speak of Pungo Ridge or 
Put-in-Creek? Yet it is geographically known that when 
Cain was in swaddling clouts, when Eve was disporting in 
her morning wrapper of Fig Leaves, Pungo Ridge and Put-in- 
Creek existed. 

11 



I hate your intolerable Pessimistic Quibblers. They affect 
neither the Past or Present. With them nought is every- 
thing and everything nought — "Anno Urba Conditae" a fable, 
William Tell a myth, the Wishing Tree a dream. These 
verses are not written for such folk. The Author, in all confi- 
dence, addresses himself to the most critical, and, at the same 
time, to the most appreciative of readers, the Little Folk, 
with the earnest hope that what is here written, (and solely 
for them,) may please them, and with, also, the assurance that 
they cannot believe more fully what is here set down than did 
Grandpa himself whilst he was writing it. 

PART FIRST. 

Come here my winsome little Maid, 
Sit ye on Grand Pa's knee 
And list the story he will tell 
About The Wishing Tree. 

Your dainty feet have trod the spot 
Where erst that old Tree grew 
When your Grand Mama was a Tot 
Scarce half so big as you. 

Who planted it? Sure none may tell, 
It budded there and grew. 
Perhaps "twas Adam, just as well 
Eve may have nursed it too. 

The Red Man sought it's pleasant shade 
When ruled great Powhatan 
Before the Paleface from afar 
Came and dispersed h.is Clan. 

12 



I do not know if this be so, 

I tell 't as I was told, 

But my Grandsire, I've heard him say 

'Twas very, very old. 

You don't remember it? Why no! 
Your elder Sisters do. 
But yester eve I took you to 
The very spot it grew. 

On Granby Street, you've passed it oft 

With Nurse, I will be bound. 

Throned in State Coach when you were 

\ 
The Sweetest Babe in town. 

I've wandered oft thro' Old St. Paul's, 
That's very old dear, too. 
With old, old graves of old, old folks 
Who once were young like you. 

Aye! handsome lads and lassies gay 
All winsome, light and free, 
They plighted troth for aye, for both 
Beneath the Wishing Tree. 

They thought none heard them, but alway, 
('Tis true as true can be,) 
A little Bird heard every word 
Spoke 'neath the Wishing Tree. 



12 



And he would tell it to the Stars 

As merrily sang he, 

The Stars the White Moon told, who loved 

To kiss the Wishing Tree. 

And don't you know the Zephj-rs caught 
Each secret sweet and all, 
And hid 'em in the great big Elms 
That fondle Old Saint Paul? 

And so the Old Folks sleeping there 
Would wake and say "Ah, me. 
Sweet is Love's breath, 'twill bide till Death 
Breathed 'neath The Wishing Tree." 

Ah, Dear! the wishes that were made, 
The wishes all to be, 
By blythesome Lovers in it's shade 
In sweet Expectancy. 

Go ask your Grandma does she mind 
The Spring of Fifty-Three, 
What I said, she said and both said 
Beneath The Wishing Tree? 

The Moon shone as she never shone. 
The bright Stars crowned her Queen, 
When I, a lad of twenty-one. 
Kissed a Rosebud of Sixteen. 



14 



The little Bird he heard it all. 
And merrily sang- he, 
And merrily to Old Saint Paul's 
We went to married be. 

The Skies put on their loveliest dress 
And lent their richest blue 
Unto the Violets on her breast, 
The sweetest ever grew. 



Oh, dear old Times ! in mellowest Rhymes 
Time runs for her and me, 
Our love has but the stronger grown 
Since gone is Fifty-Three. 

Adown the Aisle I see the while 
Her tripping home with me, 
And on the street we stop and greet 
The dear Old Wishing Tree. 



What was the little Bird? Ah, Pet! 
Your question puzzles me, 
Was it a Bird and did he dwell 
Up in The Wishing Tree? 



IS 



A Bird, a Sprite, sure dear each night 
Was there, sure as can be. 
Sometimes a flash of Light like Pearls 
In th' Throne room of the Sea, 

And sometimes 'twas a rhythmic rune, 
Sweet as such sounds may be, 
Like mellow cadences of June 
In that Old Wishing Tree. 

There was a Spirit, too, I've heard 
Who loved the Bird, and he 
Dwelt at Saint Paul's and every night 
Went to The Wishing Tree. 

A-float, a-float in a tiny boat 

Made of fleece clouds so light. 

He'd sail o'er the tops of the old, old Elms 

As he went to the Tree each night. 

Fire Flies lent tapers to show the way, 
The Bird would his Pilot be, 
'Twas hard to guess which he loved the best — 
Saint Paul's or The Wishing Tree. 

The Bird and he within the Tree 
Heard every word was said, 
And every kiss they saw, I wis 
'Twixt those old folks now dead. 



16 



The Sprite and the Bird, as I have heard, 
Like Love may never die. 
When the Old Tree fell, don't you know 
I saw both upward fly, 

"To Heaven"? I guess so, and they told 
The Angels that there be, 
How cruel man had wrecked their home 
Within The Wishing Tree. 

'Now when Day dies Xight walks the skies, 
Crowned with Stars is she, 
She loves to throw her softest glow 
Where stood The Wishing Tree. 

When all is still I have my will 

To stand where erst it grew, 

And in the air, somewhere, somewhere 

Are Voices once I knew. 

One is the Past, the Present one, 

The first is sweetest yet, 

The other with one j'et to be 

Is closer to you. Pet, 

And this is what I heard 'em say 

One eve, my bonnie Pet : 



17 



18 



FIRST voice: 

Whither, whither Brother mine, 
Whither now fly ye, 
To Elmwood be your sorrowing flight 
Since gone's The Wishing Tree? 

Thro' Old Saint Paul's 'tis Progress calls, 
My onward who may stay. 
I raze her walls, the Ivy falls, 
Lord am I of To-day. 

The Old Time's gone, long live the New! 
Your memories are but dust, 
My wheels turn fast, they grind your Past, 
On them there be no rust ; 

Brother mine ! why grieve and pine, 

Things may not always be, 

A change is over Earth and Air, 

E'er changeful is the Sea, 

It were no sloth to drive you forth 

From out The Wishing Tree. 

SECOND voice: 

Brother, brother mine, I know 
Your will takes little heed 
Of things that were so sweet and dear, 
You make our old hearts bleed. 



spare for LoVe's sake those that still make 
The Past a Present seem, 
Sweet are Old Memories, doubly dear 
Like Music in a Dream; 

I go, ah, whither shall I go! 
Gone are my ancient halls. 
Your hammers dt4 make discord in 
"God's Acre" of Saint Paul's; 

It's old, old Piles, it's Holy Aisles 
Spare long as Time may be, 
'Tis there I go, in woe, in woe. 
Since gone's The Wishing Tree. 
* * * 

Pet ! you are young and fair and sweet, 
God keep you so alway. 
May long, blest years be yours, for you 
Like me'll grow old and gray. 

But don't you think it was a Sin 

As cruel as could be, 

To drive the Sprite and the Bird so bright 

From out The Wishing Tree ? 



19 



THE POET. 

I knew a Poet once, who like his kind 

Was miserabU' poor ; the World received 

His Songs and praised them — From the Crucible 

Of Poverty he wrought, aye! the World looked on 

And smiled approving, when he asked for bread 

Gave him a stone, — yet in his soul there grew 

Things which to him were real and tangible. 

A Flower to him was not a flower indeed, 

He watched it grow and bloom, in it a Soul 

Spake voiceful from it's petals. 

In loneliest haunts, e'en when a boy he strayed 

In the tall wood, moss-crowned, that thro' the night 

When men do sleep hold converse with the Angels 

Who hide and seek within their leafy crests. 

Skyward aspiring as in scorn of Earth. 

His fellows were the Stars, playmates, the Streams 

That sang him dreamy Music ; Nature oped 

Her treasures from her sealed up wondrous book 

Wherein he read, soft nestled in her lap. 

And talked with her sweet God as face to face — 

All Love was pictured in that mighty face — 



20 



Nor Anger, Vengeance, but the sad sweet smile 

That hailed the Nazarine, 

As if in labored grief for his fair world. 

Made foul with Alan's mad strife and hate of men, 

Where Malice genders, birthing things most vile 

And loathsome as that progeny of Hfell 

Mad Incest, Sin and Death, the blind Poet saw 

In Revelation when his inner sight, 

As' if in scorn of outer vision oped 

In Paradise regained — A Presence 'twas 

To hire, not distance the meek child who drank 

From her pure fountains knowledge infinite 

And ravishing — In the songs of birds. 

In leafy solitudes there was all enrapt 

The Music of the Spheres ; their callow young 

Were his for loving care, and when perchance 

His meditative footsteps led him where 

Soft nested in the Hawthorn they were housed, 

'No fear aflfrighted, for they knew him as 

Dame Nature's child, his mother and their own — 

And so he lived, not in the World of Trade 

Where cent per cent's the standard of a man 

Of hoarded millions, wrung from horny hands 

And suckling Babes, who worry at the teat, 

Dried up by Poverty, lifeless as the bone 

The Tiger leaves to bleach on Indian sands. 



21 



Some called himi Fool, and said Sir, you have Wit 

And that within you that may compass quite 

A competence — not so, he'd rather tread 

The path he heard in olden days was trod 

By Him of Nazareth, than to count the gold 

By millions — Let me, said he then. 

Scorn that ye strive for, in it there are tears 

Innumerable, tears, aye! the Orphan's moan, , 

Brooding o'er burnt out fagots in the night. 

When Winter's snows have froze Sweet Charity — 

Away from these, for Misery is akin ; 

It hides in squallid dens where Poverty 

Sucks sustenance of all there is of Life 

And dies of it's own famishment, as the worm 

Who fattens on the Corpse we've laid to rest 

And ends it's life of gluttony in Death 

Destroying all itself itself destroys 

And there the end — Yet to his Mother still 

He went for guidance, for in Her sweet face 

He saw all mysteries solved, he learned from whence 

Came Angels, ever treading this fair Earth 

To paint the Rose, and in her lowly bed 

Perfume the violet, when her meek eye 

Caught yet the splendor of the Sky, when it 

On Summer days is bluest and athirst 

For Showers ; for the Skies are bluest still 

When Earth is thirstieth. 



22 



Come forth with me, my Child, thro" mazy ways, 
Sun-glinted, diamonded dewed and odorous 
With flower breath that is an incense meet 
To highest Heaven — "Neath last Autiunn"s leaves 
Browned by the \Vinter"s chill, whose face peeps out, 
Pearl white and tinted with a maiden's blush 
Caught from the kiss wet lips of yonder shell. 
The love of Amorous Sea-Nymphs, 'tis Arbutus, 
The first born and the loveliest of the Spring — 
She is a coy, sweet blossom, and she loves 
The silence of deep shadows — Her I lapped 
'Neath cold, dead leaves ; Resurgam ! see her ope 
Her sweet eyes to the Sun, there he imprints 
Soft kisses, vermeil dyed, as doth the shell 
Laved by the Sea's wild kisses, tint her lips. 
The sonorous Shell who treasures up his mioan 

And rosier grows with Kisses 

But alas! 
The time came for his passing, and he went. 
As a tired Child who seeks the Mother's breast 
At eventide — Death were to him but Life 
And promise, for his Mother held his hand, 
"Fear not. for I will lead thee". After j^ears 
Said he was Poet true — He cared not then. 



23 



TO MRS. L. P. R., OF NORFOLK VA. 



Come to the Fount of Castaly 
That Poets drink of when they sing, 
Fair singer, leave the muter throng, 
Thy Golden Goblet bring; 

See "Bobby" dip his chrystal cup 
And pledge his Love of Scottish burn, 
Moore's shade is here and with him too 
Is Byron with his Urn. 

Po ' ct Keats drinks deep, for he was one 
"Whose name was writ in Water," he 
With Chatterton, twin Poets, nursed 
By Love and Poverty. 

Dip deep thy Goblet, thou has drank 
The clear, pure Stream of Poesy, 
And let thy Rhythmic verses ring 
In music which shall be 



24 



Sweet echoes of a soul inborn 
Of gentlest Passion, softly stirred, 
Aye! that which makes the Poet great 
And worthy to be heard. 

Not that a Critic's eye may scan 
In measures of a fancied art, 
That is true poetry I deem 
Which speaks unto the heart. 

The Passions in us strangely work, 
And human kind is human still. 
The Poet is the instrument 
Of Heaven's own sweet will. 

And voiceful as the Stars we see 
When Angels light them, and the gleam 
Of thine is e'en a steady light, 
A bright Star on thee Stream. 



26 



THE BROOK. 



A Sunbeam said to the Brook one day 
The Summer is here, come let us play ; 
The Wild Rose fringes your banks along 
And the Thrush is warbling his Matin Song; 
I'll hide in your wave as you bask in my light, 
And we'll play 'till Katydid brings the Night, 
So the Sunbeam said to the Brook one day 
Steal out of the shadows and let us play. 

And the Sunbeam died and the Brook sang on 

His sweet refrain to the Thrush's song, 

And the Jessamine dipped her golden cup 

In the purling Stream as to drink it up ; 

And the Brook sighed for it's playmate sweet, 

\\'ith his amorous kiss of the Summer heat — 

And the round Moon rose o'er the Eastern hill. 

And she dipped her face in the murmuring; rill 

With a softened light, like that which glows, 

When the dewdrop is kissing the op'ning Rose. 

A sweeter playmate I wis ye be 

Said the Brook, sweet Moon come play with me. 

26 



And they played together the whole night long 

While the Katydid 'most ran mad with song — 

And thei Sun came back and he kissed the Brook, 

And the Thrush stole out of his leafy nook. 

And the Jessamine dipped her golden cup 

In the cooling Stream as to drink it up — 

And the Sun and Brook and the Thrush they say 

Were laughing and singing the live-long day — 

But the Moon stayed late, she had overslept, 

With a smaller face from her bed she crept, 

And she greeted the Brook with a cold white kiss, 

The Sea, sweet Brook, is the cause of this. 

He prisoned me fast where the Gray Dawn hides, 

For you know that I govern his mighty tides. 

So the Brook played on with the Sun and the Moon, 
And the Thrush ever joined in the mellow rune ; 
But the Moon she grew ever lagged and late, 
The Brook didn't know that the Sea was her mate 
And that, scorning it's tender and passionate charms, 
She lay all day in the Sea God's arms. 
And, once on a time as the legends say 
A Star leaped out of a cloud of gray ; 
'Twas a lonely Star, he seemed as a child 
Who had gone astray in a Desert wild. 
But a tender light and a smile so bright 
W^as seen on his beautiful face that night — 

27 



He fell in the Brook in a childish glee 
And he said 'Little Brook,' come play with me, 
I am lonely up there in a company 
Of Stars that are bigger and prouder than me — 
And the Brook and the Star were wedded you know, 
(The Thrush doesn't know why he loves them so,) 
And they are to this day, and when clouds are seen 
To shut out their kisses just like a screen, 
The Brook goes murmuring a sweet complaint 
And his song to the Dryads is low and faint, 
When the Star leaps down with a true love kiss, 
His song is a louder song than this. 



THE SEA. 

Oh, wonderful, fathomless Sea! 
Oh, deep and mysterious Sea ! 
On thy breast here I rest 
Like a bird in it's nest. 
Ye peaceful, yet ominous Sea; 
What bones do ye hide 
"Neath the flow of your tide, 
Ye cruel yet beautiful Sea. 

I list to your roar on the sand ; 

Far away is a beautiful land 

That ye lave with your wave, 

There is many a grave 

'Twixt me and that beautiful land. 

But my thoughts do ye know 

Still bridges you o'er 

To my love in that beautiful land. 

She tarries ; why tarry so late 

For her lover who watches the gate, 

Can she be, changeful Sea, 

As fickle as ye, 

Fve waited her early and late. 

Pray do me no wrong 

For my heart is not strong, 

It is breaking, all desolate. 



29 



A Ship came ashore on the strand, 
A Ship from that beautiful land, 
All a-stove, "all a-stove," 
Oh my Life, oh my Love, 
She sailed from that beautiful land. 
The Mermaids below 
Stole my Love as I know, 
They have crowned her white brow with a band 

Of Coral and Pearl, oh, miy Queen, 

In their caves ne'er such beauty was seen. 

Like the light in the Night 

Of a Meteor bright 

Were thine eyes, oh, my beautiful Queen, 

No Rose could compare 

With thy cheeks soft and fair. 

No Gold with thy ringlets' bright sheen. 

Ah me! but to weep at her grave. 

Hide it not, oh, ye pitiless wave. 

To lie down by her side 

'Neath the flow of your tide. 

What were Heaven and Earth then to me, 

To lie down by her side 

In your sepulchre wide. 

Ye passionate, beautiful Sea. 



30 



Oh, wonderful, fathomless Sea! 

Oh, deep and mysterious Sea! 

"Neath your tide still ye hide 

In your Caverns so wide, 

All was lovely and loving to me, 

I watch ye in dread, 

Ye great Grave of the Dead, 

I hate ye, ye Merciless Sea. 



31 



A HYMN OF NATURE. 



God of Nature ! I cry unto Thee ! 
Lift my soul from this Slough of Despond, 
The world has few pleasures for me. 
There is Peace in the Life that's beyond ; 

Where Thou art is all Sunshine and Life, 
Where Thou art not, dark Night and Despair 
And things that are born of mad Strife 
And fostered by sorrow and care. 

Of Thee all that ever was, is, 
The beautiful, perfect and good, 
Even Man, thy Creature, yet is 
Made Holy, baptised in Thy Blood. 

The Sky. the Earth and the Sea, 
Every leaf, ev'ry flower and tree 
Is not a slight thing which may die, 
'Tis a form that Thou wearest to me. 

Before wild Chaos unfurled 
Took form,' Thou wast God, and Thy Thought 
Made gracious this Life, as a World 
Leaped into strange Beauty from Naught. 



32 



Who has set in his bounds the great Sea? 
Who hast found for the Lightning his path? 
Sun, Moon, Stars are centered in Thee, 
The Tempest, Ye govern his wrath. 

Who will give to the Rose it's sweet scent? 
The Violet, its beautiful hue? 
Could Titian or Raphael paint • 

This Sunset unfolded to view? 

The Sun, in a million of dyes, 

Guilds the West, on a Gold Couch he lies. 

The Stars ope their beautiful eyes 

As God walks abroad in the Skies. 

About me a stillness I feel 
Too sacred for speech and too dear'. 
It is here that Thou dwells to reveal 
Thy Goodness, Thy Bounty, Thv Care. 

Where'er thro' the wild wood my trend. 
Thro' an infinite, measureless space. 
It is there I own Thee my friend, 
It is there that Thy beautiful face 

Shines on me, the murmuring rills 
Winding Seaward, voiceful and free. 
The Song-bird's low music that thrills. 
Are sweet Benedictions from Thee. 



33 



34 



Thou art there in the Sunshine and Storm, 
On the Mountain how fair are Thy feet, 
In the Rainbow I witness Thy form, 
'Tis Thy music I hear in the beat 

The heart pulse of Nature that makes 
All a Glory, the Earth and the Sky, 
Out of Life still comes Death, yet awakes 
Out of Death a fair Life, for to die 

Is to live; like a Chrysalis we. 

For a form change a form, and we cast 

The old for the new shell to be. 

What we shall be, not what we were last. 

Keep me, nourish me, Father, I pray ! 
In Thy Soul let my Soul be all spent. 
What matters Life's wearysome way 
If in Thee I find rest and content. 

Away from the bustle and strife 
Of the town, let me flee while I can, 
Where Curses, not Prayers, season Life, 
And Man ever preys upon Man. 



^ Lot 99 



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